


there was a thunder inside of my heart (there was a wonderful pleasure)

by likelightninginabottle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops as as Liminal Space, Existential Crises and First Loves, F/F, In France After the War, Obscure Vocabulary as a Love Language, Post-Canon, Reunions, Temperature as a Motif, The Adventures We Choose and the Inevitability of Fate, The Inherent Romanticism of Existing, You Are More Than Where You're From
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29444157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelightninginabottle/pseuds/likelightninginabottle
Summary: “I can order for you,” Kira says slowly. “If you want.”Malia doesn’t like it when people tell her what to do or put words in her mouth. She doesn’t like it when people do things for her because she can’t do them herself, doesn’t like when peoplepoint outthings that they think she can’t do herself. It makes her feel extra stupid, and Maliaknowsshe isn’t stupid. She couldn’t have been, to survive this long.Malia doesn’t feel stupid now. She just feels like her mouth is too dry, feels like the click of her throat isaudiblewhen she swallows.Shewants.“Okay,” Malia replies, voice lower than she expected to be. One corner of Kira’s mouth curls up, before she turns to the counter, and Malia tries not to stare when she orders in French, slipping fluid and easy from her quick tongue.She fails, but. She thinks it’s the trying that counts.
Relationships: Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Scott McCall & Malia Tate
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	there was a thunder inside of my heart (there was a wonderful pleasure)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherrysprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrysprite/gifts), [tonytonesphoneroo5000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonytonesphoneroo5000/gifts).



> for my girls, about my girls. I know you both like Malira, so I really hope you like it :)
> 
> love y'all, happy v-day, and please enjoy my contribution to femslash february. I've been dying to write these 2 for a while now, but it took me some time to work up the nerve. okay, here goes nothing.

Malia keeps her plane ticket for the very next day.

"I'm still going," she had said, and Scott just smiled, looking at her like _that_ , the way he has started looking at her recently, eyes bright and wide, and there's something sad in his smile that makes her gut twist, but she doesn't know the word for it, and she can't do anything to wipe it off his face, so she doesn't do anything at all, she just stands there, waiting.

His mouth is a rueful smear of red, an understanding slant, and his eyes are so warm that Malia thinks it would be easy to drown in them. She loves him so much that she things she can physically _feel_ it sometimes, feel it rising and spiraling out of her -- a curl of warmth in a cold, unforgiving world, where her father forgot her and her mother hated her, and she _knows_ , with an unerring kind of certainty, that he loves her back.

It doesn't change the fact that they're not _in love_ , and they never were. They were fighting for their lives and Scott was warm and strong and _safe_ under her hands and she _wanted_ , she _needed_ , but now the war is over and all that's left is the future, and the rest of Malia's life. She knows Scott wants to stay in Beacon Hills because he has _people_ here -- Liam and his friends, his Mom, Chris.

Malia has her maybe-relation with Peter, and her kind-of adoptive father who's only sometimes out of his mind, and a world that she's never gotten to see.

"I know," Scott said, nodding. "You _should._ "

His palms are warm and broad on her elbows, and they still feel like home, just maybe in a different way. Like _Alpha_ and _Beacon Hills_.

"I love you," she said, even though she's never said it before, at least not since she came back from her eight years in the woods, but if there was a person who deserved to hear it, it would be Scott. Warm, sweet Scott who puts himself in danger so much that it makes her throat close up and her claws come out and she just wants to tuck him in the space between her ribs and keep him safe, but he's not going to change, he's always going to do that, no matter how angry it makes her. And she doesn't mean it like _that_ , but Scott knows that, Scott _understands_ , because of course he does, he feels the _same_ , but he smiles, wide and guileless anyways.

"I love you too," he replies, and then she kisses him on the mouth. His lips are still warm and safe and strong underneath hers, but Malia is from the wild. She knows the wild.

She's tired of being safe. She's ready to be happy instead.

\---

"Is Peter coming with you?" Scott had asked, as she was finishing up her last-minute packing, and she almost _snorted._

"Can you imagine _Peter_ on a plane full of people?" she asks, almost annoyed when it comes out fond instead of mocking like she meant it to. "He's already there. He flew private."

Scott nods, absently, like that wasn't _really_ what he wanted to ask, and so Malia watches him carefully until he finally spits it out.

"Mind if I come with you?" Scott blurts. "To-- to France, I mean."

She stares at him some more. It's something she picked up in the last couple of years, when the gaps in her knowledge infuriated her and a situation almost left her frozen, confused on how to proceed. The world that she missed out on revolves around _words_ , which Malia has never been good at. She can do smell and touch and she can _feel_ with her entire being, but sometimes the words muddle her up, letters getting tangled up on the tip of her tongue, so close that she wants to _scream_ , just beyond reach.

She's found that if she stands still long enough, stands quiet for long enough, other people tend to fill up the silence, which she's just fine with.

She doesn't have to ask Scott, " _Why?"_ , to have the awkward conversation that while she's not really trying to get away from _him_ , she's trying to get away from him-- from all the supernatural nonsense of Beacon Hills and all the pain that comes with it, and she _thought_ they felt the same, but maybe she's not as good at reading people as she thought.

Luckily, it doesn't come to that.

"I have people," he says suddenly, "in France. That I've been meaning to visit for a long time. So, uh."

He fidgets, just a bit, ducking his head, and Malia can't help but grin.

"People, huh?" she manages, and he almost _immediately_ colors.

"Shut up," he replies, but he's _laughing_ , warm and loud and she _loves_ him.

\---

The plane ride is fine, besides the fact that it's loud and crowded and someone's goddamn hell-spawn is wailing somewhere in the back, but _she_ was the one who had talked Peter out of paying for first-class, so it's _her_ cross to bear. She's never been on a plane before-- she's never been _anywhere_ before, not really, besides a road-trip up to Oregon when she was six that she just _barely_ remembers.

She ends up being _grateful_ for Scott's presence, because the entire _cabin_ smells like strange people and a strange place, and he leans over and puts his hand on her shoulder and whispers, soft and concerned, " _'Lia, your eyes are showing,"_ and she's used to weird scents in the woods-- used to the smell of animals and the earth, and the ominous sounds between the trees at night, but the cacophony of people and their mixed scents and chemosignals is grating on her senses, and she's _grateful_ when Scott lets her bury her face in the warmth of his jacket, lets her bask in his familiar scent.

It takes her an hour or two, but finally, she gets used to it. The constant thrum of other people's heartbeats, the vague smell of vomit, all the tangled chemosignals in the air, the thrum of the plane underneath her. It makes her gag, but it doesn't make her want to stuff her nose with plugs or jump out of the plane, so it's an improvement.

She pulls back from Scott's jacket.

"Thanks," she says, direct, like she's not ashamed, even though she _is_ , but Scott brushes it off with a quick slant of his smile, a kiss on the crown of her head, and then he leans into her and conks out on her shoulder, and the sweet smell of his shampoo is enough to stave off her nausea for the rest of the flight.

\---

After they land, when Scott's hauling their luggage of the conveyor belt as she spaces out a bit and takes in her surroundings, there's a second where Malia forgets herself.

She staring, spaced out, a the screen of arrivals and departures, flicking by quick as lightning—

( _lightning, lightning, quick and fleeting but lingering in her bones and the back of her throat, sweet on the tip of her tongue, even after it leaves, leaves, leaves her wide-eyed and completely electrified and waiting just to catch another glimpse)_

—and she's here to see the world, to chase a freedom she never thought she'd have, but as each name flickers by, vowels and consonants mashed together in ways she can just barely sound out, all they represent is one more thing she'll never get to see before she dies, because she's _here_.

And then the P.A. system goes off, and Scott's handing her a suitcase, and Malia's jolted out of her trance, because: she's _here_.

After everything, _despite_ everything, her mother and Beacon Hills and every single creature that has tried to claw her throat out, wrap a whip around her body and make her forgotten, poison her with a supernatural toxin in order to collect a bounty—

She's here. She's still here.

They leave the airport.

\---

They're on a shuttle out of the airport. Malia knows she has a couple days in Paris before she takes the train to Peter's place in the countryside. She doesn't know what Scott's doing, where he's going. She hasn't asked.

Well, she knows where he's going a _little_ bit.

 _I have people in France_ , she remembers, and has to bite down on the reflexive grin.

The shuttle stops. They're about to get out.

"You'll call?" she asks, as they get in line to pile out with everyone else, and the look on his face is taken aback, mouth wide and surprised.

"Oh," he says, and then the corner of his lips quirks up. "I didn't think you'd want me to."

She's trying to escape one place of chaos by going to another, she's trying to get out of her comfort zone by leaving the city where people have tried to kill her over and over again.

Her life doesn't make sense, and it hasn’t in a long time. She was a coyote for a while, and now she's not. She's not trying to escape Scott, except for how she _is._

She realizes she's let the silence go on for too long, and he's about to step down. As quick as she can, she grabs his hand. Their fingers aren't laced together, but the warmth from his palm seeps into hers. He looks back at her.

"I want you to," she blurts, and then nothing else, but he seems to understand anyways. He nods, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, and then lets go of her hand.

"Malia," he says, uncharacteristically solemn, eyes dark and full of something she can't even begin to understand, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

The shuttle doors close.

\---

Almost as soon as she's off the steps, the shuttle doors are shutting behind her, and revving, ready to keep moving, and it takes Malia a whole minute before she can cough the scent of exhaust out of her lungs.

As she keeps moving, she realizes that it clings to the city like a fine mist-- exhaust, pollution, sweat. The smell of millions of bodies moving around and crashing into each other, piled on top of each other, scurrying from place to place like rats in a tunnel.

She doesn't have anywhere specific in mind. This trip was just _barely_ planned. She doesn't have anywhere particular to go or anyone in particular to go see, not really, and so she goes with her gut, and follows her nose down the first street she sees.

Sharp cheese, cigarette smoke, urine.

Warm bread, rotisserie-cooked meat.

She freezes at that last one, eyes nearly shut, wondering if she can still track it amongst all the people and odors and tangled scents in the city, sharpening her sense of smell and turning everything else out, until she can slowly unravel the curl of _hot_ and _animal_ and her mouth _waters_ , ready to follow it, except all of a sudden, she's being _bowled over_ , nearly knocked to the damn _floor_ if it wasn't for her reflexes, and she's not in the habit of saying sorry for things that aren't her fault, so she doesn't say anything, but her eyes do _fly_ open, reaching out to steady whoever bumped into her automatically, because according to _Scott_ , that's _polite_ , and--

Wide, almond eyes, gold as fire, licking at the inside of her ribs, at the underside of her heart, twisting in her gut, heat pooling low in her belly.

Malia feels her _own_ eyes flare helplessly in response.

" _Oh_ ," Kira breathes, shocked, expression going slack with surprise, and Malia feels even _more_ shocked than Kira _looks_ , doesn’t even know what to _say_ in response, because really, what are the chances? Her throat feels too dry to speak, but she doesn't know if the silence thing will work here, if it'll get filled at all, or if it'll just linger between them-- the pause of months spent apart pushing them farther and growing tense and unfamiliar, but that's not what she wants. Malia wonders, briefly, if this is it, if this is the only time she'll see her face, and have her hands on her waist, and—

Her hands are still on Kira's waist, Malia realizes with a start, one that's more mental than physical because she doesn't move, doesn’t withdraw. Kira doesn't either. Malia can feel the heat from her skin through the fabric of her shirt, and it's so hot it _burns_ , hotter than a werewolf, werecoyote, hotter than anyone's she's laid hands on before. The last time they were this close was years ago in _Mexico_ , Kira's body pressed flush against hers, the fire in her eyes flickering a heady, playful gold.

Malia swallows.

Kira's face cracks into a smile so wide that it moves her entire face, eyes brightening, even though they're dark again. Malia blinks a couple times to get rid of the bright blue in her own.

" _Hi,"_ Kira says, looking up at her like she's been _looking for her_ all this time, just waiting.

Which is. Just. Ridiculous.

The heat from Kira's waist spreads into Malia's hands, creeping up her arms and into her gut and into her cheeks, as Malia feels her own face stretch into a smile just as wide, helpless. She feels lighter, all of a sudden. Less like she's walking all alone in a strange place, less cold and separated from her pack. She feels warm.

"Hey," Malia replies, and it's not enough, it's not _nearly_ enough, but the gap is filled, silence sinking to the bottom of the street like a stone while Kira's laughter floats to the top. Kira says something, something that Malia doesn't hear because she's too focused on the familiar smell of her, spicy-sweet, fire and perfume and electricity that she can taste at the back of her throat.

"—should get some coffee, sometime," Kira's saying, "to catch up."

Malia has been wandering the woods as a coyote for eight years, and then spent the next two fighting for her life. She's never trusted _sometime_. She doesn't have anywhere in particular to be, doesn't have any _one_ in particular to be, besides herself.

"Now," Malia replies suddenly. "Are you— are you free right now?"

Kira _beams_.

And Kira's talking, eyes bright, and she grabs one of the hands Malia still has on her waist and she's tugging her forward, tugging her down the street, still talking, and Malia doesn't know where they're going or what they're doing because she hasn't heard a _single word_ that has come out of Kira's mouth besides those first few, and yet, Malia's following her anyways, because—

Well. _Because_.

Paris is kind of strange and getting colder, the streets are crowded and noisy, but Kira's hand is warm and familiar and her fingers are tangled with Malia's, and the world around them goes blissfully quiet, and so, Malia goes.

\---

They end up at a café, somewhere deeper down the street and up a floor. It smells like warmth and espresso, and Malia has never really _liked_ coffee, it’s bitter taste activates her fight or flight reflexes — when something would taste _not-quite-right_ in the woods, it usually meant an unpleasant night, and/or imminent death; she’s seen it before with poisonous berries and rotting meat and predators who weren’t as smart as she was.

So, Malia doesn’t like coffee, which is fine, because she’s not really here for the coffee anyways. She glances down at the specials anyways, and that’s when she realizes that this isn’t some cute tourist café, this is an _actual_ café, and the reason everything looks like it’s in a different language, is because it _is._ She frowns.

Up until she feels careful fingers wrap around her wrist. She stares at the way they brush across the bone in her wrist for what feels like too long, before she finally looks up. Meets Kira’s eyes, dark and perceptive.

“I can order for you,” Kira says slowly. “If you want.”

Malia doesn’t like it when people tell her what to do or put words in her mouth. She doesn’t like it when people do things for her because she can’t do them herself, doesn’t like when people _point out_ things that they think she can’t do herself. It makes her feel extra stupid, and Malia _knows_ she isn’t stupid. She couldn’t have been, to survive this long.

Malia doesn’t feel stupid now. She just feels like her mouth is too dry, feels like the click of her throat is _audible_ when she swallows.

She _wants._

“Okay,” Malia replies, voice lower than she expected to be. One corner of Kira’s mouth curls up, before she turns to the counter, and Malia tries not to stare when she orders in French, slipping fluid and easy from her quick tongue.

She fails, but. She thinks it’s the trying that counts.

They sit on the terrace, soaked in sunlight, and Kira’s foot isn’t pressed up against hers, but she can still feel the heat radiating from her skin, even with the distance. There's a book placed at the corner of the table; one Kira was holding when they ran into each other, clutched against her chest. Runes fill the cover and spine, in a language Malia _knows_ she can't understand.

“French,” Malia blurts, too loud in the peaceful quiet that has settled between them, but Kira doesn’t startle like most people do. Kira has never really been _most people,_ Malia suspects _._ “I didn’t know you spoke it.”

Kira laughs, easy and pleased, and Malia has the distinct thought that she should be upset that she’s being made fun of, but she can’t bring herself to.

Malia’s still trying not to stare, because Kira looks _good._ She always looked good, but _._ Hair bluntly chopped to her shoulders, parted deeply to one side. A leather jacket that looks more functional than self-indulgent — well-worn and battered — settling well across the self-assured line of her shoulders. The curls of ink on her skin, peeking out of the neckline of her tank. There's more than one, Malia knows, because she saw another one, a black rune, tucked behind her ear, soft tendrils of hair barely covering it.

(Malia wants to know where the rest are. Wants to trace and taste each line and color.)

The fluid grace in her limbs, quick and carelessly graceful, sure and measured; a far cry from someone who used to trip down the stairs on the regular.

Her eyes still crinkle in the same way when she throws her head back and laughs, though.

“I don’t really,” Kira replies, sounding flattered. “We’ve just been in the country for a couple months. Picked some things up. Not much more than my coffee order, and how to ask for directions.”

“What about Japanese?” Malia finds herself asking, unable to _not_ flash back to last year, Kira’s fox halo glowing around her, sword held sharp and threatening overhead like an executioner, screaming in a language none of them could understand. It filled Scott with dread. It filled Malia with . . . Something else entirely. "Still speak _that_?

It may be a sore spot, she realizes too late. She can’t take the question back, though.

"I do," Kira replies, a small, wry thing twitching in the corner of her mouth, the curve of her lips. "After I got everything . . . " she hesitates for a moment, fingers drumming on the wooden table, " _balanced,"_ she settles on, "with the Skinwalkers, it just came to me. All of it. Like I've known it my whole life."

"Oh," Malia replies.

Their coffee comes.

Malia's skin feels pleasantly sun-warmed, but the air is still a bit chilly. The chocolate in her cocoa is the deepest she's ever tasted, and it warms her down to the bones. She wonders how Kira knew that espresso makes her tongue recoil.

"It's good, isn't it?" Kira laughs quietly, probably at the look on her face, but Malia doesn't have it in her to be embarassed.

"This is _amazing_ ," she lauds, taking another sip. It's too hot for her tongue, but it's thick and _sweet_ and Malia has supernatural healing for a reason.

"This is one of my favorite places, when I'm in the city," Kira says, like Malia couldn't tell by the familiarity with which she talked to the barista, the way the rest of the terrace is full, except for _this_ specific table, right next to the railing, overlooking the rest of the street.

"It's nice," Malia admits, fingers mug-warmed against the beginnings of a chill that curls through the air. She can hear the sound of the street below, people laughing and walking, street vendors and their sizzling meat, cars honking, but everything still seems . . . Muted, somehow.

"Lots of people pass through," Kira says, with an absent wave of her hand toward the street past the railing. "It's just interesting to watch is all, you know?"

Malia doesn't.

"It's like . . ." Kira says, peering down the railing, "everyone who passes by has a life that's just as messy and complicated as your own. And they won't live _nearly_ as long as _me_ , or even as long as _you_ , but. They have the same friends, routines, worries," she laughs lightly, self-deprecating, "inherited _insanity_. Everyone has their own epic story, with passageways to other lives, other _people_ , that you'll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as a lighted window at night, or a honking car passing on the highway, or," she raises her mug, "as an extra sipping coffee in the background."

Malia is struck speechless. The silence settles between them, warm and comfortable instead of tense and expectant.

"There's a word for it," Kira says. "It's called _sonder_. When you realize that everyone's life is just as fucked up as yours."

Malia can count the number of times Kira has sworn in front of her on one hand, and it startles a loud laugh out of her, helpless, echoing across the terrace. "So, that's what you've been up to?" Malia asks, grinning. "People-watching?"

Kira smiles back, unashamed. "People are _fascinating_ ," she shoots back. "They're insane and ambitious, and absolutely out of their _minds_ , but _beautiful,"_ she says. "In a world where everything is changing, all the time, people are the only thing worth looking at."

Kira's eyes are solemn, serious, and she's not looking at _people_ anymore. She's looking at _Malia_. Only Malia.

\---

Kira usually stays a little farther into the French countryside with her mother, at the sprawling estate of a large pack nearby, Malia learns. Its one of the closest packs to the capital, apparently. Most of them tend to cluster around Toulouse.

"It's _gorgeous_ ," Kira's saying, "there's a river that cuts through the entire city, and all the buildings are pink terracotta, which is why they call it _La Ville Rose_ , but," she quirks a smile, shrugging one shoulder, "I prefer Paris."

"Why Toulouse?" Malia asks, and Kira's eyebrows go up into her hairline.

"Oh, I thought you knew," Kira says, blinking, surprised. "There's a Nemeton there."

Malia did, in fact, not know, and if she _had_ , she probably wouldn't have stepped foot in the country at all, to be frank. _Peter_ probably knew, because Peter knows everything, and Malia almost wants to claw his eyes out, just a little bit.

" _Nodus tollens_ ," Kira says, eyes crinkling, and Malia frowns. "That's what it's called. When you realize that the plot of your life doesn't make sense to you anymore."

Malia doesn't like it when people put words in her mouth. But she likes _this_ , a word gently folded into her hand so that she can fit it herself. And _fuck_ , does it _fit._

"I can't _believe_ ," Malia groans, "that I just went from _one_ Nemeton town to _another."_ She resists the urge to _thunk_ her head down onto the table. " _God."_

Kira laughs. "I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you," she says. "it's a seven hour drive from here. I think you're okay."

She _is_ , Malia realizes, for the first time in a long time, _okay._

"Want to try mine?" Kira asks, and it takes Malia _far_ too long to realize she's talking about the coffee. Her cup is tipped the slightest bit forward, and Malia can _smell_ the brewed beans in it, warm and deep, _knows_ she won't like it, because she doesn't like coffee, never has, but she finds herself nodding anyways.

Kira meets her halfway, but instead of letting go, she carefully wraps Malia's fingers around the mug with her own. Kira's fingers burn hotter than the drink inside.

She doesn't let go of the cup, of Malia. Malia's fingers tingle from the warmth.

She takes a sip.

It's fantastic, probably, for coffee. They're in Paris, after all. But Malia can barely taste anything anyways, heard thudding loudly in her chest, and what she _can_ taste, is. Well.

It's horrible.

"It's good," Malia says, voice hoarse. Too hoarse for someone who just poured liquid warmth down their throat, but Kira doesn’t seem to notice. She just smiles, ducking her head.

"Not for you, is it?" Kira says, shaking her head and scrunching her nose up. "I didn’t think it would be. It's called _un serré_. They make it with half the regular water of a regular espresso, which is why it tastes like . . . "

 _Like death_ , Malia thinks, but: "It's _good_ ," Malia insists, " _seriously."_ It is, emphatically, _not_. Malia takes another stubborn sip, just on principle, and doesn't gag because she's had _worse_ , but to be honest, it's a close thing.

Kira laughs, loud and bright, and carefully repossesses her coffee. Malia surreptitiously washes the taste of pain out of her mouth with warm, rich chocolate.

They eventually make it to the, _what are you doing here,_ and Kira replies, _some lesson or the other_ , with a roll of her eyes. _That's all my Mom is trying to teach me these days. I only came into town to run some errands for her_. She nudges the book at the corner of the table.

Malia remembers Noshiko. Remembers the way she had protected her, sent her power down to Kira like it was a _gift_. Not like it was stolen.

(Gunshots echoing through the house, gunshots echoing down the street, screaming, shifting, the crash of a car and the blood of her sister and a doll in her hands, claws and fangs and animal where there shouldn't be animal.)

She remembers Kira's old sword that Noshiko kept, while she was with the Skinwalkers. Liam has it now, back home. Or at least it's pieces, and Malia thinks it's a good thing that Kira has a new one, considering that she's almost certain it'll be destroyed by the time Malia heads back, melted down or blasted apart, rendered powerless, considering how Liam left the hospital, shoulders brushing against each other, fingers tangled tightly together with someone Malia would rather not think about. Smelling exhausted and relieved and nervous and excited and, _ahem, Excited_ , with a capital E, in ways Malia would _really_ rather not think about.

It's an odd pairing, but she thinks it's frightening how well it works together.

Blunt, impulsive, angry and a calculating trickster. Who would've thought?

Malia startles so hard at the rush of realization that she nearly falls off her chair.

"What about you?" Kira asks, and Malia has to blink. Refocus.

"I don't know," she replies. "Just . . ." Malia inhales. Exhales. The air is fresher up here. It clears her head. "Just looking, I guess."

Malia tips her head up, meets Kira's eyes. Kira looks back.

"Oh," Kira says.

\---

They leave the café, eventually, as the sun sinks in the sky, cobblestones dusted with the golden evening light.

They spend a lot of time walking, aimlessly. They don't talk a little, but the quiet is nice too. Malia likes the quiet. Their shoulders brush together, so do their knuckles, and Malia is surprised by the _desperation_ with which she wants to just reach over, and grab her hand, tangle their fingers together and not let go.

She doesn't manage to, before it gets dark.

"I should call a cab," Malia says, but Kira's already shaking her head.

"Don't worry about it," she replies, wrapping her fingers around Malia's arm. "I rode here. Want me to drop you back?"

Malia wants.

 _Rode_ , is something she doesn't realize the implications of, until she sees the bike parked outside of the bookstore.

It's not like Scott's dirt bike, portable and thin.

It's a muscle bike. A _motorcycle_ , large and gleaming. Suddenly, she understands the leather jacket.

Kira swings a leg over the seat, straddling it, and Malia's world slides out of focus for a split second.

"Oh, don't worry," Kira reassures, because she's just _standing there_ , stock-still, _staring_ , heart in her throat. Kira grins. "It's electric." The slightest bit of electricity flickers through her fingers, sparking and bending, lightning in her fingertips, and the bike starts up.

There's only one helmet, and Kira wordlessly passes it over to her.

"I heal," Malia says.

"I'm immortal," Kira replies, unimpressed, "practically."

Malia slides the helmet on. It smells like Kira's perfume, and the warmth of a campfire. Malia swings her legs onto the bike, settling down, before Kira plants both hands on Malia's thighs and slides her forward until her chest is pressed flush to Kira's back. Malia's heart stutters in her chest.

They go faster than they should, probably, cars and people and lights in buildings blurring past. The wind whips her jacket back and Kira's hair is flying freely in the wind. The chill nips at Malia's body, but her arms are wrapped tight around Kira's waist, and Kira always burns hot, hot, hot.

Malia presses her cheek to Kira's warm back, the lambskin of her jacket soft against her skin, and she takes it in: the thrum of the motorcycle, the rushing of the wind, the roaring of traffic and pedestrians, the steady rhythm of Kira's heartbeat.

They stop outside her hotel, and Malia gets off the bike, legs feeling weaker than she's willing to admit.

She takes off the helmet, hands it back to Kira. Their fingers brush, and Malia wonders if Kira sent another wave of electricity through her hand, or if the sparks she felt as their skin touched was something else completely.

She's _so_ close to inviting her up, _so_ close to opening her mouth and just _asking_ , but Kira says, suddenly, almost _nervously_ , "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Malia prays she's not imagining the hope in her voice.

"You will," Malia promises.

She will.

\---

"You get in okay?" Scott asks, from a European number, and Malia doesn't actually know if her phone plan includes international, but whatever, Peter's rich. "Safe and everything?"

" _Yes, Alpha_ ," she parrots, and he laughs at the other end, warm. "I'm good, don't worry. Where'd you book a room?"

"Uh," Scott says, and Malia automatically quirks a brow. "I'm not staying at a hotel. I'm staying with . . . " he trails off. And Malia _grins_.

" _People in France_ ," Malia surmises, echoing his words and trying to keep the laugh out of her voice, " _that you've been meaning to visit for a long time?"_

"Shut up," Scott replies with a wry laugh, sounding sheepish. "But, yeah. That."

Malia hums. "How are your _people in France_ , anyways?"

"Good," Scott says brightly. "Really good." And then, quieter: " _Happy_."

She straightens, suddenly, from where she was lounging on the mattress.

"You deserve to be happy too," she says forcefully, because it's _important_ that he understand this. "Scott, _you_ deserve—"

"Yeah, but," he says, before releasing a long, weary sigh. "I don't know, 'Lia. I don't know."

"They're not happier _without_ you," she persists.

Silence down the line, and her heart sinks into her stomach.

"Scott, I didn't come to France to get away from _you,"_ she says, desperate. "Stiles didn't go to D.C., and Lydia didn't move to Boston to get away from—"

"Didn't they?" he replies quietly. "Didn't _you?"_

" _No,"_ she growls into the phone. " _You_ are _so much more_ than _Beacon Hills_."

He doesn't respond.

"You _deserve_ to be happy," she repeats. "Tell me you at _least—"_

"Okay," he says.

"Okay?"

" _Okay_."

"Okay," Malia concedes, slowly. Reluctantly.

"So, what'd you get up to all day?"

"Uh," Malia says, Scott's words from the shuttle echoing in her ears. "I ran into Kira."

" _Oh,"_ Scott says, surprised, before he's laughing, bright and warm. " _God_ , I _miss_ her. How is she?"

"Good," Malia repeats. "Happy, I think. She, uh. Looks a little different."

" _Yeah?"_ Scott asks, not even _trying_ to hide the grin in his voice, and Malia _knows_ that tone. She scowls.

"She rides a motorcycle now," she blurts, before she can stop herself. "It's, uh. Electric."

Scott laughs louder.

"Shut up," she snaps, the heat bleeding into her face instead of her tone, teasing chuckles echoing down the line, warm and familiar, and relaxing her muscles down into the soft mattress below her.

**Author's Note:**

> okay some notes  
> \- there really is a nemeton in toulouse! at least in the teen wolf universe haha  
> \- it's up to you who "people in France" are. Maybe it's isaac, maybe it's allison. If you want my take on it, it's both of them, but hey :D up to interpretation  
> \- if you want a photo reference of kira's hair, please accept [this](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/58ccaac6b3db2b938ea3f917/1490995342757-Y7Z08DCUHORQH6CALTK1/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kE9QJcPuLUu9lGKR_KE6ZX57gQa3H78H3Y0txjaiv_0fDoOvxcdMmMKkDsyUqMSsMWxHk725yiiHCCLfrh8O1z5QPOohDIaIeljMHgDF5CVlOqpeNLcJ80NK65_fV7S1UcW3TQctBoKPMP6NneuYiK0KU4qtzOr07DLSL2teO8pcN-pJ8gxYmbeBCDVBIgGsZA/image-asset.jpeg?format=1500w)
> 
> this was so romantic to write, I had a blast :D and obviously, I could resist the thiam/malira parallels, nor could I resist writing a scalia friendship :) they deserve the world
> 
> Tell me what you liked, what you didn't!! As always, all feedback is welcomed and highly appreciated :)  
> If you want to come scream at me on tumblr, feel free to find me at [inabottlelikelightning](https://www.inabottlelikelightning.tumblr.com/)


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